overhead shot of tea cups steaming
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A Prophet of Lies by Dori Lumpkin

"Have I missed the mark, or, like true archer, do I strike my quarry? Or am I prophet of lies, a babbler from door to door?"

—Cassandra (Aeschylus, Agamemnon)


It goes like this: Cassandra dreams, and then wakes up, and then writes her dream down in any number of journals she has next to her bed. They’re numbering in the hundreds at this point, hundreds of miniature prophecies and truths and omens and warnings only she can understand, scrawled in an ink that seems to bleed through the page. That morning’s notebook is red, deep red, dark red. A red that is begging to say something of its own. She pays it no mind. After that, she proceeds with the rituals—always the rituals. Day after day, hour after hour, the smearing of a lamb’s blood on her apartment door—thick and heavy under her stained fingers—the scrubbing of the dried blood from the day prior, the measuring of incense and setting out of bones in preparation for what’s to come. She doesn’t try to tell people things anymore. She hasn’t for a long time. There’s no point.

The morning—the waking and rituals and cleansing and recording of dreams—is frantic. After that, though, she rests. She steeps her tea, trying not to look for answers in the formations of the leaves, letting herself have peace. Quiet peace. Perfect peace. Perhaps her peace will come with music playing softly in the background, and she won’t pay attention to the order of the songs, she won’t wonder about their potential prophetic significance, because this time, this moment, is the only one she will get for herself. She treasures this peace until her teacup is empty—however little or long that takes. This is the only part of her day where her ignorance suffers no consequence, and she will cherish that without fear.

Shortly after she finishes her tea, there is a knock at the door. There is always a knock at the door. She sighs, because she knows who it is, and she readies herself for an impossible conversation.

“Wait,” she tells the person outside the door. “Wait.”

And she will go to her room, digging through piles and piles of prophecy, until she finds the one she wrote for the visitor. Maybe she wrote it that morning, maybe three years prior—either way, the visitor is here and Cassandra is ready to be ignored. She holds the notebook in her hands, reading over the tragedy she spent such careful time recording. This would not be an easy one. Nevertheless, she makes tea—exactly the way the visitor likes—and she opens the door.

She is not thrown off by the arrival of the visitor. She knows exactly when they are supposed to arrive. The waiting is a test. The weaker of heart will leave, deciding that anything they might learn is not worth the annoyance of dealing with a finicky oracle. The strong of heart might as well leave, considering it is inevitable that they will accuse Cassandra of spouting lies, but they’re always more stubborn than that.

Today’s hero is far more stubborn than that, Cassandra knows. She also knows that today, there is only misfortune to share.

The hero is a woman, too confident for her own good, who strides into the small apartment with more bravado than almost anyone in the past, and sits herself right down at the table. She knows why she is here. Cassandra does too. But Cassandra knows how it will end, and the hero does not.

“They say you’re a prophet,” the hero says with an easy grin, “and that you can tell me if I will be successful. Is that true?”

“Maybe,” Cassandra responds. “Do you want to know?”

The hero shrugs.

“If you’ll tell me. Everyone says you’re a fake, but I thought I’d make my own opinions.”

“Maybe everyone is right.” Cassandra chooses not to defend herself, because at a certain point, it isn’t worth it to do so.

“More information is better than no information.” The hero pours herself a cup of tea, inhales it deeply, and sighs. “Darjeeling.” She holds up the cup. “My favorite.”

“Lucky guess.” Cassandra sits across from the hero and opens the notebook that contains how the hero will die.

“Probably.” The hero drinks the tea, swirling the leaves around in the small cup. “So are you going to tell me my future now, or what?”

“Are you going to listen, or will you be the same as everyone else?” Cassandra knows the hero will not listen. Still, the hero bristles at the implication that she could be the same as anyone who came before.

“Of course I’m going to listen,” the hero scoffs. “I’m not an idiot.”

No; she is not an idiot. Cassandra knows this. But Cassandra knows that her curse reaches past the rank of intellect, and can make fools out of the smartest of her visitors.

“Then you shouldn’t go on your quest,” Cassandra responds, flipping through the notebook until she lands on the exact page she needs. “You’ll be bested in combat by a creature of unknowable strength, and it will be the last anyone sees of you,” she reads, devoid of emotion. It is best not to get attached in situations like this. “I wish I could deliver better news.”

The hero’s face reddens, and she grips her teacup as if it’s the last thing she’ll ever hold. It won’t be. The last thing this hero will ever hold is a sword, desperate and ready, as she faces a death she will know she was warned about.

“You’re wrong,” the hero hisses. “That isn’t true.”

Cassandra has to stop a sigh from passing through her lips.

“I’m never wrong,” Cassandra responds. The hero glares at her, tightening her grip on the cup. It’s a small mug, light blue—one of Cassandra’s lesser favorites. She doesn’t mourn when it shatters in the hero’s fist, shards of porcelain and rivulets of tea going everywhere.

Cassandra, of course, knew this would happen.

“You’re full of shit!” The hero stands, breathing heavy.

“Not particularly,” Cassandra replies, moving to pick up the larger pieces of the cup. “I thought you were going to listen.”

“And I thought you weren’t a liar.”

“I didn’t tell you anything I don’t know to be true.” Cassandra knows this fight isn’t worth it. The hero doesn’t know that, though, and continues.

“You’re just some random bitch, aren’t you?” There’s blood spilling over the hero’s hand where the porcelain cut her as it broke. “You’re not an oracle. You’re not anything. You can’t tell me what my destiny holds, because you don’t even know it yourself.”

Once, Cassandra would have tried to argue. She would have tried to defend herself to the hero, and done her damndest to prevent the hero from leaving, from going on her quest, from meeting her inevitable death at the hands of forces greater than Cassandra. She would have taken the hero’s hand, tenderly offering to clean the blood off, telling the hero to breathe, sit, listen, let’s just try again from the beginning and maybe something better will come about. But she doesn’t.

This happens to her every time.


Bio

Dori Lumpkin is a queer writer and storytelling enthusiast from South Alabama. Their work has appeared in Diet Milk Magazine, Ram Eye Press, and is forthcoming in many other places. They love all things speculative and weird, and strive to make fiction writing a more inclusive place. You can find them @whimsyqueen on most social media websites, or check out their website.

Author's note

The prophet Cassandra is, first and foremost, a tragic figure. And her story is prevalent perhaps now more than ever. In a world where misinformation is spread and warnings are constantly given, so often we move forth anyway, disregarding facts and reason for things that bring fame and temporary joy. For this story, I wanted to bring forth just how cyclical and exhausting Cassandra must be, because to me, waking up every day and continuing to warn people and help them even though you know they won't listen is possibly the noblest thing anyone can do.