The Prophecy Is a Prank

How it begins

Ben Vale recognized his own prophecy by the spelling mistake.

BEHOLD THE REIGN OF THE GOLDEN HARE, announced the banner across the market. He had meant hair. The joke had been made after three cups of plum brandy, when the miller's bald nephew asked whether destiny had anything planned for him.

That was seventeen years ago. Ben had forgotten it until a golden rabbit climbed onto the well and every bell in the village began to ring.

A soldier took his elbow before he could leave.

'Nora Marsh,' she said. 'Royal inquiry.'

'Lovely weather for one.'

'You wrote the prophecy.'

'I wrote a rhyme.'

She produced a page from a small waterproof case. Ben saw his old handwriting, the crooked line beneath the last verse and a stain that had once been plum brandy. Someone had framed the original in silk.

'Four predictions have come true,' Nora said.

'It was six lines long.'

'Five now.'

Across the square, the rabbit turned its head. Ben saw the fine seam beneath its ear. Its golden fur lay too evenly. He had spent thirty years glazing pots. He knew the difference between a living shine and a finish applied by someone in a hurry.

'That animal,' he said, 'has been painted.'

Nora looked at the rabbit, then at the men cheering beside it. None appeared surprised. One checked a pocket watch before beginning the next chant.

The soldier loosened her grip.

'What is the sixth prediction?'

Ben remembered. He wished very much that he did not. At the time, the village bridge had seemed indestructible, and jokes about the crown had felt harmless beneath a low tavern ceiling.

'There's a bridge,' he said.

Nora folded the page. 'Then we'll discuss your arrest on the way.'

Behind them, the golden rabbit sneezed a tiny cloud of yellow dust.