* Author : Greta Hayer * Narrator : Wilson Fowlie * Host : Matt Dovey * Audio Producer : Peter Adrian Behravesh * Discuss on Forums Previously published by Beneath Ceaseless Skies Rated PG-13 The Augur and the Girl Left at His Door by Greta Hayer The augur looked at the bridegroom’s back and sighed. He bent close to the bridegroom’s skin, examined every bump and line in his flesh. Most apparent were the red lines, claw marks from fingernails. A less experienced fortune teller would have seen those marks and spoken of the satisfaction of the young man’s new bride, perhaps suggested the imminent birth of a child, but the augur had done this for many years. He knew how to read the skin of a person, living or dead. He knew that there would be no happiness for the couple. There would be a child — there was already a child quickening in the belly of the bride; that much was obvious by the angles of the cuts, the swell of the muscles by the shoulder blades — but that child would be the end of them. It was as clear as dark moles on pale skin; as obvious as the ridge of a spinal column. The augur told the bridegroom to put his clothes back on. He did not tell the bridegroom about the darkness in his future. The augur had seen other soothsayers punished when they told people things they did not want to hear when he worked for the emperor many years ago. But the augur did not lie. He never lied. And to not tell the whole truth — that was no lie. “You will have a daughter,” he said. “Afterwards, you will travel to the city to make your fortune.” The bridegroom left the augur’s hut, his spirits in the clouds, babbling about the hope he had for his future. Even so, the augur was not surprised when the squalling, pinch-faced infant appeared on his doorstep nine months later. As the village augur, it was his duty to place any unwanted children with a new family, reading everyone’s skin until he found the most sympathetic match. As he lifted the girl into his arms, she cooed and grabbed fistfuls of his beard, and the augur laughed, though it pulled on his cheeks. The girl had seven freckles on her scalp, a brownish birthmark on her hip, and eyes like mud. The augur took careful stock of her skin, noting every hair, every wrinkle. He heard her piercing, demanding wail. She would be a fierce child, he foretold. Perhaps too fierce for the other villagers to handle. He was delighted and surprised to see lines of curiosity on the soles of her feet, an uncommon feature in this part of the country. She would ask many questions, and the augur was the only educated man in the village, the only one who might have the answers. Perhaps, he thought, it was best she stay with him. The augur had been wrong once, long ago. When his beard had been the color of a raven’s wing, he had read the skin of the emperor’s back. The emperor’s flesh was smooth and soft, almost untouched by hair. The augur ran his hands along the emperor’s skin, feeling for crevices and knots. The emperor’s ribs stuck out boldly. The augur saw success and a long life and strategic wit. He did not consider the width of the emperor’s shoulders, which indicated bad luck in games of chance, or the curve through the back of his neck, signifying a tendency toward night terrors and decisions made in haste. “The war will go well,” the augur said. “You need not be concerned.” But the war did not go well.