Next

by Pil Lee

Next to the shrine was a polaroid camera. There was a wooden box on the seat beside it with a hand-drawn label announcing “Donations – $1”.

As each supplicant approached, the small man picked up the camera and took their photo. He then slipped the picture into the slot in the wall beside the burning incense and put the camera down again while he took a sip of water.

The day was fine and the queue stretched down the valley and his money box filled quickly. Occasionally he felt a twinge in his hip as he shifted from foot to foot on the rocky ground, but he patiently pushed each photo through the opening until the queue was gone and the sun had almost set.

He locked the rusty gate at the head of the pass and then ducked his head under the faded brocade hiding the mouth of the cave. The last rays of the sun cast a dull red glow through the slot in the wall, falling dimly on the jumbled pile of the day’s polaroids. He bent down slowly, favouring his hip, and gathered them into his canvas bag.

It was only a short walk home through the darkness of the olive grove. He stoked up a good fire to warm his little cottage, then tipped the bag over the central table and spread his photos out before him. Faces that looked at him with kind eyes he placed to one side, then he lowered the rest gently into the flames on the hearth. He smoothed his shrunken fingers over the remaining pictures and arranged them side by side on the table. They kept him company through his usual meal of rabbit and barley, then he put them carefully away in the drawer of the old bureau.

He slipped into his old nightgown and brushed the embers of the dying fire. Alone in his bed at the end of the room he thought of the day’s pilgrims and he wished them well. The oracle slept.