The Fortune Teller
The Land Whispers My Name
And tells me stories of the women it loved

I do not wish women to have power over men; but over themselves.
Mary Wollstonecraft
I hear them calling
Chanting, singing, and weeping
Sisters, my sisters
I walk alone in the night. The land talks to me, Telling its stories, Returning again and again to the women.
Warriors, shamans, priestesses, Worshipped and followed, Feared and hounded, The land’s heart belongs to them.
Longing for understanding, Recognizing my kindred soul, The land aches with memory and loss, Unreconciled to the heavy hands of men.
Hoping that I am a sign, A foretelling of the women’s return, I suddenly sense a reawakening, A connection to the land renewed.
I feel the joy underfoot, Weaving up through root and branch, Filling the streams and rivers, Proclaiming “they will come again.”
This is a former fortune teller, named Penelope at this point in the 21st century. A combination of a curse and her own powers has allowed her to live many centuries and travel all over the world. She and her young lover, Ronan, are living in New Orleans.
She has found many sisters in her long life.
