Page 44 - Fables volume 3

The Séance

“Girls, have you heard about that Brahma from the East? He is a
magical, mystical, clairvoyant psychic.”
Annabelle’s eyes widened. “No, I hadn’t. You mean, he can tell
fortunes and make flies drop dead with his powerful vision?”
“That’s old hat,” sniffed Clarabelle. “Swami Zebu can do all that,
of course, but they say he is able to contact the dead, as well.”
“Really?” Isabelle was a bit impressed despite her pessimistic
streak. “So there is life after slaughter? Hard to believe.”
But they went, anyway, bearing mouthfuls of sweet grass as
offering. Zebu stood placidly on the other side of the fence, watching
their approach. They dropped their donations where he could reach
them and waited. He approached, a large bull with massive hooked
horns. The girls were glad the posts and railings of their enclosure
were sturdy.
“So you cows are afraid of me? Don’t worry: I can’t get through. I
would not dream of violating purdah, in any event.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Clarabelle. “He read our minds!”
The bull sniffed at the small pile of greens. “Thanks for the salad.
Now, what can I do for you? No point in foretelling your future.”
Annabelle summoned the courage to speak. “Is it true,” she began,
hesitantly, “that you can communicate with the spirits of the
departed?”
“Sometimes,” replied the swami, masticating methodically. “It
must be a sympathetic soul, willing to use my etheric body as a
channel from the other side.”
“It’s my mother,” blurted Annabelle. “I miss her terribly, and
would find great solace in knowing she is at peace.”
“Then I shall do my best. What was her name?”
“Marybelle.”
Swami Zebu suddenly stopped chewing. His eyes rolled upward
and he began swaying back and forth, bending slightly at the knees.
He was going into a trance! His audience gaped at him, transfixed, as
he started chanting, almost inaudibly.
“O, wairz dabif. O wairz dabif. O wairz dabif.”

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