A Thurles Fortune Teller – Short Story By Author Tom Ryan.

Old William (Bill to close friends) was a right one for the horses. It was all in the stars, he figured. “Lady Luck is on your side or she isn’t”. he always said. “And it helps to find out where she stands and what psychic mood, she’s in”.
Which is why we ended-up in front of a garishly coloured caravan at the fair-ground.

It belonged to Madame Fortuna, a Thurles fortune-teller, as you’ve probably guessed. I felt like an absolute idiot, since I don’t, as a rule, go along with this ‘stars and magic’ stuff.
Anyhow, we were supposed to be at the Thurles February races and now it looked like we might miss the first race, all because of Old Bill’s superstitious tendencies.
He could see my blood was up, but he imparted a tolerant grin and went on to explain his foibles.“Nobody ever believes you should consult your stars at vital moments in life. But it works for me”, adding “The bane of the bookies, that’s me, Bill, right enough”.

“OK, OK”, I grunted impatiently. “Let’s get this nonsense over with”.
“Now remember” he warned, a serious expression forming on his chubby face. “You must believe in it all. It’s no good and money wasted if you don’t have faith. Faith that moves mountains. Follow me, young man”.
I nodded and followed him up the few wooden steps that led to Madame Fortuna’s caravan consulting room.

We entered and this ancient looking woman, dressed like one of the extras in “The Desert Song” was seated at a table, gazing into a crystal ball. She grinned slyly at Bill, who acknowledged her greeting with a knowing smile. She sensed my scepticism, for I detected a scowl as she turned in my direction.
“Old witch, bothered, I’m sure”, I swore inwardly.
“Twenty pounds each, gentlemen”, she squeaked. Well at least she was doing pretty well, out of Old Bill’s passion for the nags. I flicked two tenner’s on the table, as did Old Bill, with a lot more eagerness, also placing his two notes on her small table, latter littered with all sorts of curious and weird looking objects.

To cut a long story short she then went into this meditation routine, as her eyes penetrated the crystal ball. After a bout of what appeared to me as silly theatrics, she emitted a low moan and collapsed over the ball.
“Oh no, not a bloody heart attack”, I groaned. Then she quickly recovered, resuming her original posture and spoke in unearthly, haunting tones. “I see a man and an arrow …. and another man …. and something else…”, then less dreamily she announced: “No more!”
Bill thanks her profusely. He seemed to be content enough with his money’s worth. (Wouldn’t have said the same for me).

Later at the race track Bill scrutinised the race card carefully, over a pint of Guinness in the bar.
Suddenly he began to tremble with excitement. He said he was going to put one hundred pounds on a horse.
He didn’t say which horse, but told me to look carefully at the card. Then he was gone.; I’m not a gambler, really, nonetheless, I glanced at the card to see if anything might strike my fancy.
When I saw the first horse on the card for the next race, my pulse suddenly started racing. I wondered … heck; I decided to put one hundred pounds on “Robin Hood”, the number one on the card.
I recalled the old gypsy’s reference to a man and a bow and an arrow… I’m not superstitious… but …!

Then I dashed over to the grand stand and followed the progress of the race through my binoculars. It turned out to be a hell of a close race. The colours of Robin Hood’s jockey were Lincoln green, but Robin didn’t get the final verdict, so I dashed back to the bar without waiting to hear the results of the race.
I decided I must be one of those fellows whose horses follow other horses – going out at twenty to one and romping home at midnight!
Disgusted and with sweet prayers for that gypsy, I ordered my usual pint of comfort. Then who should sidle-up to me but Bill and boy did he look a picture of pleasure. “We’ll celebrate and invite the gypsy along; …. major windfall”.
“You won…?”, I asked, dazed. “Have a look”, Bill gestured with his hands towards his coat pocket, which was bulging with a wad of fifty-pound notes. “All thanks to the gypsy”, he beamed, “What are you having?”
“How?” I asked.
“Didn’t you see the last horse on the card?” said Bill, “Number Six? Don’t tell me you forgot to have a flutter?”
I checked the card again carefully. Then my eyes rested on Number Six for the first time. I did not know whether to die laughing or cry myself to death. I recalled what the gypsy had said. “I see a man and an arrow …. and another man …. and something else…!”
Oh, me of little faith. Number six was called “William Tell” and he crossed the line, a winner; at 33/1.