Written by Mariel Herbert  / Artwork by Lee Kuruganti
The Fine Art of Prophecy

























The ropes about my wrists were starting to chafe, and the rivulet of sweat trickling down my back was
making my dress stick to my flesh. Of course I could not attend to my discomfort; there was a roughly
hewn wooden stake in the way.

The morning sun hung low in the sky, with washed-out rays just clearing the upper branches of the
beech trees. The beast was late, you know. That figured. I arrived an hour early, completely ready—not a
speck of dirt on my dove-white gown—and what?—the other party couldn’t even be bothered to show
up on time.

I surveyed my surroundings yet again. Verdant glade? Check. Twittering bluebirds? Check. My eyes
passed over a weathered axe at the edge of the clearing, embedded in an equally aged stump. Grazing
fawns? Fluttering butterflies? Check and check. Everything was in order: perfectly picturesque and
innocent. Let’s get going, I thought.

Then—finally!—the sky shook: a mighty clash that rent the clouds. A tremendous hulk suddenly eclipsed
my view of the heavens. Fauna fled and flora was trampled underfoot—that is, if the monster actually
had any feet beneath the disjointed layers of feathers, fur, and scales.

A sucking wind tugged at my front, causing a few wisps of hair to escape my golden coronet. The beast
rocked backwards to settle on its haunches.

I was face to face with my destiny.

You see, this particular monster had been a bane on my land and my people for decades. Fed up, the
king traveled to a far-away mountain for an audience with the Oracle. After he waited in solemn
meditation for three days, she bade him enter. The sibyl blessed him with the answer to his problem and
prayers. She spoke of a daughter, fair of face and brave of heart, and she sang of prophecy:

Monster and maiden at dawn’s light shall meet,
A life will be given; the other may eat.
Peace prevails ten-hundred years,
For gone is the creature who fed on your fears.

The first time I heard those convoluted, portentous words, I was but a bantling at my father’s knee. I’ve
grown quite a bit since then.

In the presence of great evil, I gave my heaving bosom a few breaths to calm, then cried: “Oh great and
terrible Beast! I come to you with a plea and a bargain. This kingdom cannot withstand your torments.
Please accept my life in exchange for one thousand years of peace. With my pure flesh may you sate
your hunger. With my noble blood may you slake your thirst.”

The monster made no move towards me. For several minutes I listened to the laboring of its sides.

“WHAT?” The sound shifted the earth below my feet. The noise was indescribable—akin to the
caterwauling of stray cats blended with the wailing of babes starving at the teats of long-dead mothers. I
could not see the creature’s gaping maw, so far above me was its head.

Then the nameless beast decided to go off-script: “YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO CONSUME ME!”

Startled, I strained against my bonds. The monster couldn’t be right, could it? I looked to the axe. I
had dismissed it earlier as a woodcutter’s relic from another, more ancient tale. Our well-worn prophecy
ran across my mind’s eye. You know, if you read it that way, it could be interpreted as—

I swallowed my surprise and found my voice.

“If you would be so kind as to untie me, I will be happy to oblige.”
THE LORELEI SIGNAL
Mariel Herbert is looking for brevity, but she will settle for humor.
She studies medicine in Pennsylvania.