The Fortune-Tellers of Poperinge

Margot De Clercq was not a woman easily distracted. At sixty-two years old, she had already completed the raising of seven children. Now she sat here on a Tuesday with five of her grandchildren: Petra, aged eight; Thomas, aged six; and the twins Sofie and Josef, aged four. Her daughter Bernadette had gone to Ypres on notarial business. It would not take long, she had said. Two hours at most.

Around midday, there was a knock at the door. Margot went downstairs in her slippers. She opened cautiously – one never knew who might pass by in the town. Two women stood on the doorstep, dressed in dark, refined clothing despite the warmth outside. The elder, with grey hair drawn tight under a headscarf, smiled indulgently.

"Good day, madam," she said with a slight accent. "Do you speak French?" Margot, who had studied French for years and spoke it fluently, hesitated. There was something in their gaze that awakened her suspicion. "A little," she answered carefully. "Only a little."

The women were not discouraged. They presented themselves as traders with fine carpets and textiles from abroad. "Very reasonable," said the younger. "Twenty francs, perhaps fifty, specially for you." Margot, whose eyes had already raised a red flag, shook her head. "No, no, I am not interested."

But the women stepped inside as if they had been invited. The elder admired the front room genuinely, touching the curtains, running her hand along the table. When she settled herself into one of the chairs, as if she belonged there, the younger took a seat on the sofa. "Madam," began the sitting woman, "I can see something. Something special. Would you not like to know what fate has in store for you?"

Fortune-telling. Margot did not believe in such things, yet she felt herself drawn forward, as if under a curse. "Your purse, please," whispered the woman. Almost without realizing it, Margot walked to the kitchen and fetched her wallet. With trembling hand, she handed over a twenty-franc note. "This is all I can spare," she said.

The women exchanged a glance. Their work had only just begun.

The elder woman held the twenty francs in her hand as if it were a precious talisman. But she did not return it. "This is merely the beginning, madam. I see more. Much more." She closed her eyes, and her body began to tremble gently. "Money is coming to you. A great sum. But first – first you must help me."

Margot felt her heartbeat quicken. Money? Her widow’s pension was meager, and Bernadette’s help, though welcome, was insufficient. "How can I help you?" she heard herself ask.

"I am in trance, madam," whispered the woman. "The powers are speaking. They say that you must give me one hundred francs. After that, fortune will flow like water."

One hundred francs. Nearly her entire weekly housekeeping purse. Margot hesitated, but something in that trance, however false it seemed, manipulated her reason. She returned to the kitchen. Her hands trembled as she counted the notes from the drawer. When she came back, she saw that the younger woman was already inspecting her linens – the precious sheets she had inherited from her mother.

"This is fine work," she said. "This as well?"

"No!" cried Margot, suddenly awakened from her stupor. "Not this."

The elder woman stood. She seemed harder now, more businesslike, as though the trance had ended. "Very well, very well. But listen carefully, madam. In seven days I shall return. By then you must have five hundred francs. They will be important to you." She took both of Margot’s hands, pulling her close. "In seven days," she repeated, and somehow, perhaps through exhaustion or fear, Margot consented.

The women departed, and Margot sat alone in her front room, surrounded by the silent questions of five sleeping grandchildren. What had she done?

That evening she could not eat. She sat in the darkness, counting minutes as though they were seconds. One hundred francs were gone. In seven days, one woman would return for five hundred. It was a scheme, of course. A deception. But how could she explain it to anyone? Who would believe that she, Margot De Clercq, had allowed herself to be manipulated by two strangers?

Toward midnight, when the town outside became stiller than death itself, she made a radical decision. She put on her coat and left the house. Her destination was not far: Sint-Sixtus Abbey, where the monks would surely offer her aid in her hour of need.

Brother Pascalius received her not without compassion. The old Benedictine, his face wrinkled like a mountain map, had heard such tales for sixty years. Margot, trembling in the light of oil lamps in the abbey, told him everything. The fortune-tellers, the shameful money transaction, the threat to return in seven days.

"My child," he spoke gently, "you have fallen into the snare of deception, but you are not alone. This happens more often than you think, especially in cities where hope and commerce meet, where strangers and swindlers find one another."

Brother Pascalius rose with difficulty and disappeared into the sacristy. Minutes passed like hours. When he returned, he carried something that gleamed in gold: a medal, no larger than a thumbnail, bearing the likeness of the Archangel Michael, trampling a demon beneath his feet.

"Saint Michael protects against all deception and wickedness," he said, and he placed the medal about her neck. "Wear this. And do not be afraid."

Margot felt something shift in her being, as if the metal stone against her skin radiated warmth, not burden.

Seven days passed like a nightmare endlessly repeated. Margot told Bernadette nothing – what else could her daughter do? Instead, she lived with the medal beneath her dress, feeling its presence with every breath. On the seventh day, when Bernadette was at work and only Margot remained with two of her grandchildren – Petra and Thomas – it happened.

There came a strange knocking on the iron gate at the front of the house. Not the ordinary knock of a visitor, but something urgent, something compelling. Margot looked out the window and saw a man, not one of the women. He was tall, with dark eyes, and he shook the gate as though he would break it open.

"Madam!" he called. "Mrs. De Clercq! I am here with a message from my friends. About your debt."

Margot felt her heart pound in her chest. She whispered to the children, "Stay inside." Then she opened the window a crack. "What do you want?"

"A bicycle pump," called the man. "Only that. Can you bring me a bicycle pump?"

It was absurd. It was clear. A pretext, a trick to lure her outside. But Margot said, "The gate is not even locked. You can help yourself."

The man walked toward the gate – but could not open it. His hands went to the iron, he pushed, pulled, shook, but it refused to move. Not because it was locked – Margot knew that it was not – but because something invisible, something stronger than human strength, prevented him from passing through.

"This cannot be," he muttered, and his dark eyes filled with fear. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, faster and faster until he disappeared from view into the hop fields.

Margot sank into a chair. Her hand went to the medal beneath her dress, warm now against her skin. Brother Pascalius had been right. Saint Michael had protected her, not through force of arms, but through an impossibility greater than human deception could overcome.

She would never need to pay the five hundred francs. The women never returned. And though Margot would never know who or what that man was, or what dark practices lay behind his visit, she knew one thing with certainty: that in Poperinge, beneath the hop fields and between the old alleyways, there still worked forces that defied the avarice and treachery of the world.