The Oracle Year(24)

Teulere holstered his revolver and plodded through the dust toward the village. A group of men walked out to meet him as he approached. Four of them, in long, light-colored robes, with leather-skinned faces framed by turbans and scarves. Behind them, the rest of the villagers stood and watched, curious. Teulere noted a number of young men—children, really, boys—squatting in the shade of the huts, staring at him with reddened eyes, keeping their balance by leaning on AK-47s planted stock-first against the ground.

The eldest member of the advance party stopped a few feet away and held up a hand. He spoke. Teulere struggled to understand—it was some kind of Hausa, but thickly accented.

He responded in that language, with a basic greeting. Whether the elder comprehended or not, the old man seemed to know why he was there. He curtly gestured for Teulere to follow him, then turned and walked directly to the largest hut in the village.

The boys unfolded themselves, standing and slinging their rifles over their shoulders, holding them loosely. The child soldiers closed in around Teulere, silent, red-eyed. The only open direction was along the path the elder had taken.

Teulere kept his hands far from his pistol and stepped forward.

The large hut had a hanging cloth for a door. The elder pulled it aside, grinned, showing a set of mottled, wooden teeth, and pointed into the dark depths of the hut.

“Who is there?” Teulere asked the old man in Hausa. No response.

Teulere sighed and ducked into the hut. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom. The little round building was cool, almost pleasant after the heat outside.

“Hello, Monsieur,” a voice said in French, from the far side of the hut. Teulere shaded his eyes, peering into the darkness, trying to see who had spoken. He took a step forward.

“Who is it?” he said. “I have come to see the Oracle. Are you he?”

A man was seated on a rug at one end of the hut, surrounded by platters of food, rifles, delicate items of stonework, and other gifts. He looked just like the other villagers—perhaps his clothes were a bit finer, but otherwise he was just a man, about thirty years old.

“Why have you come here?” the man said.

“Talk in the city has it that the Oracle lives here, and that he is willing to sell visions of the future. If this is true, then let us make a deal. I have brought items to trade.”

The man began to laugh and continued for a long ten seconds. Teulere waited, growing more certain every second that he had wasted his day and several canisters of gasoline he could barely afford.

“My name is Idriss Yusuf. And yes, I am the Oracle,” the man said, his chuckles tapering off. “I was able to predict the day a small plane would crash near here. It was full of supplies stolen from a United Nations outpost in Burkina Faso. My village has been eating well ever since. And now, people come to me with their questions about what tomorrow will bring, and I do my best to answer them.”

“So it is true,” Teulere said, feeling a little awed. “But how?”

“How?” the man said. “It is very simple. I am the only man within a hundred kilometers who can read French.”

He laughed again.

Teulere’s mind filled with confusion.

“I don’t understand.”

The Oracle reached to the ground next to him and opened a cloth satchel. He pulled out a newspaper and held it up. Teulere took a step forward. It was a copy of Le Republicain, dated some months earlier. Prominently featured on the front page was a story about the Oracle, which reprinted the predictions from the Site. One of them—one of the first, date-wise—referred to a plane crashing in the Niger desert.

Teulere understood. The crash had occurred before the Site had truly erupted into the world’s consciousness. Back then, no one would voyage into the trackless wastes of the Niger dust lands on the off chance some American website could predict the future. Now, of course, it was different. The location of each of the Site’s predictions had become spots of great interest as their occurrence dates drew near, attracting Oracle tourists from across the world and extensive media coverage.

This man had seen an opportunity and taken it. That was all. A gamble that had paid off.

“So you see, then,” the man continued. “People come from far away to ask my advice and give me the wealth of their villages. It has made me and my tribe rich. You are the first white man to come see me. Ask me your question, give me your gifts, and I will reward you with what you seek.”

“Fuck you,” Teulere spat. “You are a fraud. I will give you nothing.”

The faux Oracle shook his head sadly.

“That is unfortunate, my friend. I have plans, you see. In this dead land, people are desperate for a future. Any future. Why should I not be the one to give it to them?”

His eyes narrowed.

“Better than your kind, who only take.”

The man lifted his head and rattled off a loud string of Hausa, too fast for Teulere to follow. Still, he didn’t need to hear it clearly to understand. He cursed and reached for his pistol, spinning around.

The first shot caught him high in the chest. He had just enough time to see two of the child soldiers at the entrance to the hut, holding their rifles high, before the second entered through his cheek and exited through the back of his skull.





Part II

Winter